


"i love you" never felt like any blessing

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, i say "canon-typical violence" but it gets a bit gory at parts so be forewarned, i'll add more characters in the second chapter, when there ARE more characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Felix has seen Sylvain die enough times to know it will neverreallyhappen.





	"i love you" never felt like any blessing

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really into this trend of f+tm lyric titles for sylvix fics
> 
> also hi yes i DID change the title, apologies

Felix has seen Sylvain die enough times to know it will never _really_ happen.

Their first brush with death comes at nine, when Sylvain is barely tall enough to hold a lance. Felix carries a training sword on him at all times, at the insistence of his older brother. Sylvain teases him, but Felix teases back every time Sylvain trips over his lance. Teasing turns to wrestling, and wrestling—well. Wrestling turns to tickling, a cheap shot on Sylvain’s part, but very effective against Felix’s smaller frame. Felix thrashes, and kicks, and finally finds his sword to _thwack_ it against the back of Sylvain’s head.

“Hah!” Felix cries, victorious only a moment before Sylvain collapses, limp, on top of him.

Later, after Felix has managed to dislodge himself and run, absolutely _not_ crying, to get his father, Glenn pulls him aside. “He could have _died_,” Glenn hisses, quiet so their parents don’t hear. “You know that, right? Your best friend could have died.”

Felix feels his lower lip tremble as he averts his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Glenn huffs and rolls his eyes. Clapping Felix on the shoulder, he clears his throat. “It wasn’t a bad move, you know,” he says, gruff but kind. “It was…messy, but not bad. You hit the right spot.”

Felix blinks. “You think so?” he asks, tentative.

“He passed out on top of you, didn’t he?” Glenn says. “You hit the base of his skull with your sword. Even with a blunt object, that’d be enough to knock a grown man out.”

“Oh.”

“Just…control yourself next time, okay?” Glenn sighs. “You have to know better. One day this will be real and you won’t get any do-overs. No one will.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. More quietly: “I’m sorry.” Unbidden, a flush creeps up his cheeks, and he knows Glenn will bring it up later.

Glenn _tsk_s. “Don’t waste your apologies on me,” he tells Felix. “I’m not the one with a bandage wrapped halfway around his head.”

Felix balks, his brother’s praise not quite enough to soothe the lashing of his words. Before he can respond—before he can bring himself to look back up at his brother’s face—Glenn has turned and left. Felix huffs and squares his shoulders, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the tears that prick the corners of his eyes.

That night, he goes to check on Sylvain, guilt hanging on every step. When he finally reaches Sylvain’s bedroom, he finds the door cracked. He pauses before going in, visions of Sylvain bloody and bruised swimming behind his eyelids every time he blinks.

“Hey, Felix,” Sylvain calls. “I know you’re out there.”

Felix flushes. “Yeah,” he says. “S-so?” He curses the crack in his voice.

Sylvain laughs, pleasant and warm and decidedly _not_ weak. Felix allows himself to feel marginally better. “Come on,” Sylvain says. “Come in here.”

Felix does as he is bade, trying not to drag his feet and failing. Once inside Sylvain’s bedroom, Felix finds it difficult to meet his eyes. He hears Sylvain laugh again, and a blush creeps up his neck.

“Sit down,” Sylvain says, and who is Felix to reject him?

As soon as Felix pulls himself up the bed, Sylvain wraps his arms around Felix’s shoulders and crushes him into a hug. “You’re so stupid,” he says as Felix yelps.

“_You’re_ stupid,” Felix says, flustered. “I almost—” He pauses, guilt rushing through him again. “I almost killed you.”

Sylvain laughs, unbothered. “Nah,” he says. “That’s funny, though. Is that why you’re all mopey?”

“What?” Felix snaps. “I’m not…_mopey_.” And he’s definitely not pouting, either.

“Uh huh,” Sylvain says, and when he chuckles his breath tickles the top of Felix’s head. Felix doesn’t shudder, or lean into the hug. He has more self-control than that. Although, apparently, not enough to refrain from mortally injuring his best friend.

He winces, and Sylvain notices (because of course he does). “Are you really still upset about all that? It was a joke.” When Felix doesn’t look up at him, Sylvain elbows him in the ribs. “Felix, come on.”

Felix sneaks a glance and frowns at Sylvain’s smile. “Me almost killing you isn’t _funny_.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, clearly unconcerned with his own life. However, at Felix’s continued frown, he reigns his smile in—with some effort, Felix notes. “You didn’t almost kill me, Felix,” Sylvain says, scanning Felix’s face for the _thing_ he has apparently missed.

Uncomfortable with Sylvain’s sudden attention, Felix clears his throat and tries to push his friend away. “Didn’t you hear me?” he says, a bit angrier than he intended. He swallows. “I almost killed you. Glenn told me so. A blow like that—”

Sylvain cuts him off. “Whoa,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care what Glenn said. Felix, that’s—that’s so _stupid_. I wasn’t gonna die from that.”

“What?” Felix says. “You can’t say that, you passed out—”

Felix watches as Sylvain puts the pieces together, eyes scanning Felix’s face rapidly. For someone apparently so naturally _gifted_, Felix thinks, Sylvain can be so stupid. At last Sylvain’s eyes widen, eyebrows shooting towards his unruly hairline.

“_Oh_,” Sylvain gasps, through fits of giggles. “Oh, you thought—Oh. Felix, seriously? I didn’t pass out. I was—I was faking it. Like, as a joke. You took it real serious but I also thought you were smart.” Sylvain throws a wink in for good measure and Felix’s world shifts.

Felix reels back, hurt and relieved and extremely confused. “_What?_”

“Yeah,” Sylvain admits, with the sense to look a little sheepish. “I, uh, thought it would be funny.”

Felix finds himself pouting before he can stop it. “Not funny,” he mumbles. “Glenn said—”

Sylvain waves his hand. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. At Felix’s flinch, he sighs and pulls him back against his chest. Tentatively, Felix settles in at his side, grateful for his warmth even as he’s angry at Sylvain for tricking him. And for laughing at him. And, now that he _really _thinks about it, for calling him—

“I’m not stupid,” Felix mutters, petulant. “I was just…worried. Ugh.”

“Aww,” Sylvain teases. “You, worried? About me? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said, Fee.”

The nickname grates at his nerves, but Felix lets it slide for reasons entirely unrelated to Sylvain’s fingers rubbing against his scalp. “I told you to stop calling me that,” he says without any heat. He feels Sylvain shrug under him.

“Nah,” is all Sylvain says, and for the moment it’s enough. It’s a moment Felix will unpack many times over the course of the next several years but now—it’s just—nice. So Felix lets it be nice.

He drifts in and out of sleep for several hours, he thinks. An early beam of sunlight wakes him up, a bright and dazzling ray against his closed eyelids. He blinks awake, murmuring and shifting and trying desperately to cover his face. When he reaches for the blanket, however, he catches an already-awake Sylvain staring at him.

“What?” Felix mutters. His voice is raspy and weak and he hates it.

“Hey, Felix,” Sylvain says, uncharacteristically serious. For a second, Felix thinks he may be dreaming, but Sylvain’s sudden grip on his shoulder is very real.

“What,” Felix says again. He’s too busy burying his face in a pillow to pay attention to Sylvain right now.

After a beat, Sylvain says, “You know I would never actually die on you, right? I’m not _that _dumb.”

Felix gives his agreement by way of a grunt and a shrug of his shoulders. It’s not good enough for Sylvain.

“What if I promise?” Sylvain asks, now pulling insistently at Felix’s shoulder. “Would that make you feel better?”

“Ugh.” Felix finally turns to look at him. “I told you earlier, I’m not moping.” He tries to shrug out of Sylvain’s grip but the other boy won’t let him. Sylvain mirrors his frown.

“Come on,” Sylvain says, hushed. Felix notices the way the rising sunlight catches his red hair, outlines it against the dark of the wall. It shimmers in a way Felix’s doesn’t, and he feels something not-quite-like-jealousy curl in the pit of his stomach.

He wrenches his focus back to Sylvain’s face. He’s clearly expecting a response.

“A promise?” Felix asks. “What kind of promise?”

Sylvain’s face splits into a grin, and Felix’s sleepy mind is too slow to keep his mouth from quirking in response. “I’m so glad you asked,” Sylvain says. “And since you did, I’ll tell you.”

“Please do,” Felix deadpans.

“Let’s promise to always stay together. Actually. Let’s fight by each other’s sides, and then we’ll never die until the other one does.”

Felix considers it. “Sounds serious.”

“You love serious.” Sylvain’s still smiling, but there’s an edge to it.

After a moment, Felix acquiesces. “Fine. Let’s promise.”

“_Yes_,” Sylvain cries, and it’s louder and sharper than it has any right to. Felix flops over, trying to pull the blankets over his head.

“Wait!” Sylvain says. “You have to promise before you’re allowed to go back to sleep.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

Felix narrows his eyes, but holds out his hand. Hesitantly, as a blush creeps up his cheeks, he extends his little finger. Sylvain grins and grabs it with his own.

“Now,” he says, “let’s promise: we fight together, we die together. Neither of us can go until the other goes first.”

Felix squirms under Sylvain’s expectant gaze. “I promise,” he says. He groans when Sylvain nudges him. “I _promise_,” he continues, “to fight beside you and die beside you. I’m not leaving until you do.”

Then Sylvain says, “It’s official,” and Felix is helpless.

* * *

For the next four years, they dance like this: Sylvain rushes headfirst into trouble, trusting that Felix will never be far behind. Felix, in all of his gangly, adolescent glory, finds a strange peace in this arrangement. He finds the shock of Sylvain’s red hair a comfort in a crowd, an easy target to chase. At thirteen, he has only just begun to examine the flutter in his chest during the times when Sylvain _actually_ gets hurt—or, even worse, when Sylvain leans on him for help, thicker, broader, and taller than Felix and thoroughly _warm_ against his side. It is a feeling that sticks with him even after Sylvain leaves at night, a gentle, warm trickle from his chest to his belly. More than Sylvain, he finds himself chasing the feeling that Sylvain gives him.

And then Glenn dies.

Glenn dies, and Felix becomes manic. At thirteen, he is single-minded, disillusioned, _angry_. He turns his grief inward, pushes himself until he can no longer stand upright on the training grounds. He fights, and howls, and breaks enough training swords that his father finally allows him a_ real_ sword. Sylvain tries to keep up, but when every training session ends with Felix straddling his hips and pressing an iron sword to his throat, he admits defeat.

“Listen,” Sylvain tries, one evening after Felix had beaten him nearly bloody. “I know your training is important to you, but—”

“But what?” Felix snarls, fourteen-going-on-fifteen and _angry_. “You can’t keep up anymore? Don’t worry, I’ve noticed.”

Sylvain flinches, small enough that only Felix can tell. “That,” he admits, “_and_, I thought maybe you’d like to…take a break with me.”

Felix doesn’t even stop to consider. “No,” he says.

“Hear me out,” Sylvain says, chasing after Felix when he turns his back. He reaches for Felix’s shoulder, but Felix shrugs him off.

“No,” he says again, firm. “I won’t let anything come between me and my training.” He pauses, appraising Sylvain with a sneer. “Not even a _boy_ who can’t bother to keep up with me.”

Sylvain stops, face blanching before the heat of anger flushes his cheeks. “Fuck you,” he says, voice low and hurting. “_Fuck_ you, Felix.”

Felix shrugs and pointedly ignores the sinking in his stomach, the pounding of his heart against his chest at the look of hurt so clearly displayed on Sylvain’s face. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Whatever.”

* * *

Felix distances himself from Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain as much as he can bear; he watches Sylvain train from a distance, rebuffs Ingrid’s dinner invites as often as he can. Dimitri is easy; he’s too busy with his Duscur pet that he hardly bothers with Felix anymore. 

But the more he distances himself, the more he worries. He sees Sylvain shirk his training to meet a girl he’d wooed in the marketplace; he sees Sylvain cornered, unsuspecting, with a knife to this throat and only a poor bit of hand-to-hand combat training to save him. He sees Sylvain come home, drunk, with a knife wound in his shoulder and a bruise blossoming across his cheekbone. He sees Sylvain, at sixteen, square his shoulders and refuse to carry a sword, arms well-muscled but not strong enough to drive a spear through someone’s chest.

Not that Felix hopes he’ll ever have to.

But he…worries. He anxiety chases him to sleep, haunting him with nightmares of Sylvain’s lifeless body. Some nights, he finds Sylvain run through with a lance, a bloody hole in his chest and blood crusted dark around his mouth. Other nights, he sees Sylvain fall in battle: a knife to the eye, an arrow to the knee. He watches, as though in slow motion, as Sylvain falls from his horse, helmet tumbling off to reveal bright red hair—hair that hits the dirt with a _thud_, a reverberation Felix can feel from where he’s standing—

Other nights still, Felix dreams of Sylvain’s blood on his own hands, a corruption of his childhood memories. In these dreams he hacks and slashes his way through a battlefield, sword unmatched, before finally reaching his target: a heavily armored knight hoisted high above him, mounted atop a jet black horse. He snarls and leaps to match the knight, sword slicing easily through the armor, and realises only too late what he’s done when he hears the knight scream, “Felix—”

* * *

Things begin to change at the Academy. Sylvain seems…_inspired_ by the new professor. He trains hard, blows through lances and sickles and spears alike. Halfway through the year Felix catches Sylvain throw a fireball, knocking over a dummy and spearing it with a javelin. He’s surprised, an unpleasant mix of _fucking finally_ and _I didn’t know you could do that _coiling in his stomach.

Sylvain catches him staring. “Pretty cool, huh?” he says, yanking his javelin from the dummy’s chest. “Professor showed me. I’ve been practicing with Lorenz.”

“Uh,” Felix hears himself say, dumbly. Then: “I’m just impressed you’re actually training these days.”

Sylvain smiles, and it’s all Felix can do to remain standing. He spears his sword in the dirt and leans on it in a way he hopes looks casual, appraising. Surely Sylvain won’t notice he’s turned Felix’s legs to jelly.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, either ignorant or ignoring. He shrugs. “I think I’m getting pretty good, actually. I’ve started attracting a crowd.” He winks and waves over at the small gaggle of women that has gathered at the far corner.

Felix ignores the sinking in his stomach. “Whatever gets you to train,” he says, and pulls his sword from the ground. “I can’t keep covering you in battle.”

A strange expression crosses Sylvain’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. Before Felix can turn to leave, Sylvain reaches for his arm. He doesn’t make contact, but he does keep it stretched out, an invitation. “Hey,” he says, and stops. “Um.”

Felix looks at him. “What?”

“I…was wondering if you wanted to get dinner with me.”

Felix blinks. For the first time in a long while, he allows himself to appreciate Sylvain: the corded muscle of his arms, his broad shoulders, the thickness of his calves. The taper of his waist. Felix’s gaze flickers down, traitorously, before he wrenches it back up to meet Sylvain’s eyes.

“Fine,” he says, forcing a shrug. “I was done here, anyway.”

Sylvain lets out a victorious “Woo!” and pumps his fist in the air before slinging his arm around Felix’s shoulders. Felix scowls but allows it. For the moment.

On their way to the dining hall, Sylvain regales him with sad tales of conquest, either not noticing Felix’s discomfort or choosing to ignore it. Felix is _almost _used to it at this point; Sylvain’s obliviousness, forced or not, makes it easier for Felix to ignore the burn in his chest, the twisting in his gut. _Sylvain doesn’t know any better_, he tells himself, but bitterness still colors his scowl.

It strikes him as they sit down, food in hand, that this may be the first time they’ve shared a meal together, alone, and of their own volition since coming to the Academy. Sure, they’ve shared dinner with the Professor, or with Ingrid…or even at camp, during a particularly rough mission. They’ve broken bread together plenty of times in the last six months.

Just not like this.

“This looks appetizing,” Felix begrudges as he glances over their meal. At least Sylvain had remembered not to get him anything too sweet.

Sylvain cracks a smile, fork and knife in hand. “‘Appetizing’ is an understatement, and you know it,” he chides, before shoving a thick slice of fish into his mouth. Felix watches with amusement as the spice kicks in, painting an incredible flush across Sylvain’s cheeks. Sylvain swallows and coughs, waving a hand in front of his mouth as he searches for a glass of water. Sweat beads on his brow and Felix, an incredibly disciplined man, does _not_ think about wiping it away for him. With his mouth.

“Here,” Felix says, offering Sylvain his own water. “Just drink this.”

Sylvain grabs it from his hands and drinks greedily, throat bobbing as he does. Felix catches the movement and feels his eyes start to glaze over, before he shakes his head and forces his eyes back down to his meal. He doesn’t have time to unpack this right now, and he certainly won’t later, either.

Clearing his throat, Felix takes a bite of his own food, savoring the spice in a way Sylvain has never been able to. As he chews, he watches Sylvain pick sheepishly at the vegetables at the periphery of his plate, pointedly ignoring the fish fillet in the center and the peppers on top.

Swallowing, Felix asks, “Don’t like the food?” A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

Sylvain, never one to wait to speak until he’s finished chewing his food, says, “It’s good, I just”—a swallow—“always forget how damn spicy you like your food.” He coughs, surreptitiously taking another sip of water. The sweat on his forehead has subsided, but his hairline is still damp.

Felix forces a breath through his nose. “I didn’t force you to order it,” he snips, spearing a pepper on his fork.

Sylvain shrugs, moving foolishly back to the fish on his plate. As he cuts another piece, he says casually, “Yeah, but I know you like it.”

“Idiot,” Felix scoffs, ignoring the swell of—_something_—in his chest. He opens his mouth to say something else but reconsiders, instead stuffing a bite of fish between his lips. If Sylvain notices, he doesn’t say anything.

After they’ve finished eating—after Felix has spent most of the meal forcing his eyes away from Sylvain’s lips and throat—and fingers—Felix moves to stand. Sylvain stops him with a hand on his arm. “Wait,” he says, and Felix does.

“What?” Felix asks, shaking free of Sylvain’s grasp. “I have things to do.”

Sylvain snorts. “Sure you do,” he says, and because he can’t seem to help himself: “We both know you shouldn’t train for at least an hour after eating. You’ve got time.”

Felix _tsk_s, but does not argue. “Fine. What is it?”

Sylvain hesitates only a moment before blurting, “The Professor asked me to join her class this morning."

Felix stills, a cold chill running down his spine. “_What_?”

“Yeah, she, uh, caught me right after class,” Sylvain admits. He gives a half-hearted shrug. “I told her I would.” A pause. “Join her class, I mean.”

Felix feels his eyes narrow, bitterness exploding on his tongue. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“_And_,” Sylvain hurriedly cuts him off, “she asked about you.”

Against his better judgment, Felix is curious. He purses his lips and lifts an eyebrow, hoping Sylvain will elaborate without him needing to ask.

Sylvain does. “She asked how I thought she might…persuade you, as well.”

_The Professor wants me in her class? _And then: “Of course she wants me in her class. I’m the best swordsman in the Academy.”

Sylvain grins, a nervous edge set at the corners. “So you’ll do it?” he asks.

Felix pauses. “No,” he finally says, if only to see Sylvain’s face fall.

“What?” Sylvain splutters, moving to stand. “Come on, she’s the best professor around, I thought you’d jump at the chance—”

Felix sneers. “You thought,” he mocks, throwing his hands up.

For the first time, however, Sylvain doesn’t take the bait. Not like he did when they were younger, at least. Instead, he levels his gaze at Felix and says, far too earnestly, “Felix, listen to me. This is the best place for us. She gets all the best missions, the most funding, the best resources. She’s taught me magic, for fuck’s sake. I want to be there, and I—” He falters, before taking a deep breath. “I want you there with me.”

Felix’s heart pounds in his ears, the world roaring around him. He attempts to steady himself with a palm against the back of his chair, avoiding Sylvain’s fervent gaze. He can’t handle this right now, he thinks. Sylvain can’t do _this _to him, not right now, not after so many years of—

“I’ll think about it,” Felix grates out, and turns to leave before his traitorous brain can make him say anything else. Blessedly, Sylvain lets him go.

And on the first day of the Ethereal Moon, both Sylvain and Felix report to the Golden Deer classroom.

* * *

It is due to the Professor that their training picks up in earnest, and that Felix’s nightmares return.

She trains them hard, frequently sparring with them one-on-one. The first time she deigns to spar with Felix, he asks her not to hold back, and—she definitely does not.

She’s on him in a flash, dashing towards him and bending easily to dodge his first slash. Before he can finish his swing—before he can pull his sword back to formation in front of chest—she’s at his side, shield bashed into his sword hand and a leg hooked behind his knee. In five seconds flat she has him against the ground, injured hand pressed against the dirt and his other arm twisted behind his back.

“Yield,” she says, and yield he does. He glances quickly around the room as he gets up, thankful that everyone else is too busy training in their arranged pairs to pay him any mind. 

He appraises the Professor as he dusts himself off, massaging his sword hand. “I underestimated you,” he admits. “I apologize.”

“You did,” she says, “but now you won’t do it again.”

He cocks a brow. “Indeed,” he says. “I look forward to learning from you. Professor.”

She nods in acknowledgment and reaches for his injured hand. Unthinking, he gives it to her, and shudders as he feels healing magic flow up his wrist.

“Thank you,” he says, a little dazed.

She offers a small smile, so slight it’s barely a quirk at the corners of her mouth. “You’re welcome, Felix,” she says. “You should consider learning a basic healing spell, yourself.”

He scoffs. “What for? That’s what Mercedes and Marianne are for.”

“Irresponsible,” she chides, and he’s surprised at how much it hurts his pride. “They won’t always be there to save you. And when they’re not, you won’t get a do-over.”

Glenn’s words echo in Felix’s head, a wound he didn’t realize was still so tender. He huffs, glancing surreptitiously over at Sylvain. “You’re right,” he allows, and then: “My older brother told me something similar, once.”

The Professor blinks at him, eyes meeting his in a way that _should_ be challenging but is, instead, almost calming. He looks away.

“I’ll look into it,” he promises, hesitant. Flexing his wrist and finding it healthy, he leans to pick up his training sword. It’s easier to slip into a fighting stance than to continue to think about his dead brother.

Apparently the Professor understands, because she mirrors his movements. “Ready?” she asks, a warning.

Felix nods, and this time, he’s ready for her.

After a thorough couple of lashings, healed only to the extent the Professor’s magic will allow, Felix collapses into bed, sore and bruised and entirely content. She had beaten him handily every time they’d clashed, but he’d lasted longer each time. He’d even managed to get a couple of hits on her, bruises that were quickly healed but enough to bolster his pride. He had always been a quick learner, and now with a proper teacher…in time, he would best even her.

Sleeps finds him easily, closing around him like a heavy curtain. He dreams first of Glenn, a ghost he’d sooner forget, and all the times they’d sparred when he was younger. He dreams of Glenn’s ruthless fighting style, of the way he’d always used his size and weight against Felix. It had hurt—it always had—but it had made him stronger, faster, and greedier. He would beat Glenn one day, he knew it—if he just practiced harder, trained _harder_, he would finally beat him—

And in his dream, he almost does. They meet on opposite ends of the battlefield, surrounded by smoke and fire. Although he can’t see him, Felix knows he’s there; he can sense his brother’s presence, feels it tugging at him from across the field. With each step he takes the ground shifts, soldiers that were to his left now to his right, a corpse where he didn’t see one before. He hears a scream and knows instinctively that it belongs to Annette, torn down by some unknown, unseen force.

But his step doesn’t falter. The dirt is sticky beneath his feet, blood streaming from piles of corpses on every side. In front of him, he sees a burning house, its straw-thatched roof erupted in flames. He moves forward, step by step, and keeps his eyes trained on the fire. Inside, he sees a figure: tall and imposing, sword drawn at his side. It’s Glenn. It has to be.

He walks for what feels like ages, trudging through fire and mud and blood. He steps over Ashe’s body at one point, an arrow stuck through his throat; to his side lies Mercedes, hands bloody and still clasping at Ashe’s. Felix feels his body shudder, and when he glances back up, the burning house is gone.

Instead, in its place, he sees the Boar Prince, haggard and bloody. His short hair is matted with blood, the cape flung ’round his shoulders limp and wet with it. He leans heavily on his lance, and Felix watches as the Prince heaves, shoulders shaking.

He’s laughing, Felix realizes, and when he looks down, he sees Glenn at the Boar’s feet.

He rushes forward, sword held aloft, feet barely touching the ground as he screams Dimitri’s name. The Boar doesn’t even glance up as Felix swings down, sword aimed right at his neck—

But someone else takes the blow. Someone else _saves_ Dimitri, saves the Boar Prince in all of his bloody, feral glory. Someone with bright red hair and blue-gray eyes, darkened in the heat of battle. Darkened more so, perhaps, by Felix’s sword cleaved halfway through his skull.

Felix stumbles back, watching Sylvain fall to his knees. He watches Dimitri sneer and kick Sylvain—his _savior_—over, a lifeless body falling on top of Glenn’s forgotten one.

The last thing Felix sees before he wakes is Sylvain’s face: eyes open, blank and unseeing, but a smile curved grotesquely on his bloody lips.

Felix wakes with a start, nauseous and shaking and _so_ much sorer than he had been when he’d fallen asleep. Groaning, he wipes at his eyes, hissing when he finds tear tracks on his cheeks. Alone in the darkness of his room, he pulls his knees to his chest and chokes down a sob. Now, haunted by Glenn and reckless, _stupid_ Sylvain, sleep doesn’t find him so easily.

* * *

And then, the unthinkable happens: the Professor disappears. War breaks out. Dimitri is pronounced dead, and the Kingdom splinters.

So Felix looks to Sylvain.

It’s an unspoken agreement when they defect to the Alliance. Sylvain announces it first, and who is Felix to argue with him? After all, he promised. Where Sylvain goes, he will follow. They cannot die without each other.

* * *

Despite all of this practice—despite all of the dreams, the weapon-mapping, the premonitions and deep-rooted fear—nothing can prepare Felix for the moment he actually _sees_ Sylvain die.

They’ve been marching for three days through fog and rain, summoned by word of demonic beasts near Marianne’s home. Everyone’s weapons are already bloody, a dark rust against the metal their Professor is usually so strict about them keeping polished. Even her strength is lagging, Felix notes; while her face is hard to read, the grip on her sword is white-knuckled as she leads them, insistent on remaining on foot. Felix appreciates the camaraderie—even Lysithea, usually so adamant in maintaining her independence, has begrudgingly accepted a place on Cyril’s wyvern. 

Not that Claude hasn’t offered—repeatedly—to give the Professor a ride. The lot of them have gotten used to turning a blind eye to Claude’s needling advances, but Felix still sneers whenever he sees the Professor rebuke him. Whatever they share in the shadow of the war table, Felix doesn’t know, but he feels a strange swell of respect at the Professor’s insistence at privacy.

But the fog is heavy and dark, and by the time the Professor finally calls them to stop, they’re all shivering and soaked through. Their morale is low: Felix sees it in the quiet slump of Hilda’s shoulders, too tired to complain; in the way Ferdinand pulls his wet, tangled hair into a low, messy bun; in Lorenz’s immediate grab for a dirty flask. They look haggard, Felix thinks, but instead of contempt, he finds himself settling into a comfortable state of commiseration. He even, perhaps unwittingly, permits himself to settle quietly next to Sylvain, the almost-but-not-quite press of his shoulder against Felix’s own a comfort he so rarely allows.

This comfort, this—contentment—is what Felix blames for his lapse of awareness. He’s gotten used to traveling in a group, in relying on others for safety. He’s allowed his senses to dull, the gentle press of his friends, his _pack_, wearing down his ragged, sharp edges. He shuts his eyes against the warmth of Sylvain, only stiffens slightly at the arm that snakes around his shoulders, and breathes in the smell of campfire smoke and Sylvain’s musk.

By the time he hears the horses whinny, he’s too late. His eyes snap open to an arrow flying from the bushes, its sharpened tip catching firelight as it cuts through smoke and fog alike. Felix roars, a sound pulled deep from the back of his throat, and reaches for his sword just in time to watch the arrow bury itself in Sylvain’s breastplate.

Sylvain’s eyes fly open, wide and white, and Felix hears a scream from the other side of camp. Sylvain’s mouth opens, shuts, opens, and Felix sees blood on his teeth. Both of Sylvain’s hands clutch at the arrow as his eyes search, unfocused, for Felix’s face.

“What,” he says, and Felix can’t think, because there’s blood at edges of Sylvain’s mouth, and he’s _seen_ this—he’s seen this happen countless times—he’s seen Sylvain die a thousand ways, in the heat of battle, always reckless and luckless and _stupid_ but never—like—_this_.

Sylvain opens his mouth, tries again. “Felix,” he says, and Felix—

Felix’s world narrows, blackens, and shatters with a _pop_. There’s movement behind him, a bustle that attempts to push and carry him away. Marianne kneels at Sylvain’s side, Lysithea at his other, a frantic yet focused flow of healing magic coursing between the two of them. He keeps his eyes trained on Sylvain’s face as he reaches for the arrow, _dumbly_, so sure in that moment that if he can just remove it—

A hand catches his arm and he snarls, electricity crackling on his skin. He snaps his eyes to meet the Professor’s, confusion and anger and _anguish_ narrowing to a single point of intent.

“Let _go_,” he snaps, and to his relief, the Professor does—and then steps between him and Sylvain. Her body perfectly obscures him from view, and panic bubbles in Felix’s chest.

“Move,” Felix says, voice low. The Professor stays, unblinking. Her hand rests quietly on her sword. “_Get out of my way_,” Felix tries again, and this time, the Professor shakes her head.

“There’s nothing you can do here,” she says, and Felix could rip her open for how _calm_ she is. “Let Marianne—”

“Like _hell_ there’s nothing I can do!” Felix shouts, a roll of thunder threatening at the back of his skull. He feels it trickle down his spine, a buzz that almost reaches his hands. He reaches for it, calls to it, impatient and terrified when he feels it evade him.

The Professor’s hand is on him again, a tight grasp on his forearm. This time, when he tries to move away, she doesn’t let him. “Felix,” she says. Her big, green eyes stare up at him, swallowing his field of vision. “Felix,” she says again, “listen to me.”

He calls again for his magic, and finds it still out of reach. His body vibrates under the Professor’s hand. “You did this,” he whispers, voice cracking. It’s easier to blame her than to voice his own guilt, already curling deep in his gut and tickling his scalp. He forces a breath. “_You_ did this,” he says, louder. “You—fucking—_you_ let this happen!”

The Professor blinks, owlish. Unfazed. “Felix,” she says, distracting him long enough to bring her other hand from her sword to his cheek. He flinches, searching desperately for his magic, feels tears prick the corner of his eyes when he comes up empty. Hollow.

He feels a presence at his back, a sharp stripe of panic that dulls at the Professor’s touch. “Let me go,” he tries, desperate. “Professor, he’s—Sylvain—”

Her eyes bore into him, her hand on his arm a steady, anchoring force. The hand on his cheek radiates warmth, a distant buzzing in his brain. He blinks and his vision swims. “Professor,” he says, and there’s cotton in his mouth. “I have to. I have. I…we…”

His body slips back against a wall, vision swimming with green. There’s a weight against his chest, murmuring above him, a distant bellow of pain. He blinks once, twice, searching for something he can’t recall. He’s forgotten something important, he knows. The fog is so thick around him—in him—he can’t think, can’t see, can’t look beyond the pale green that floats through his mind, at once disorienting and soothing.

His eyes slip closed, and he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of things:  
\- this WILL have a happy ending, i promise  
\- i live for dubious, quiet, Leader byleth.....she makes calls on the field that aren't the Nicest but she's just trying to keep felix from doing something he'll regret (aka chasing after an unknown enemy in the middle of unfamiliar territory, exhausted, through fog and rain)
> 
> you can find me on twitter @ nishtabel :)


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